


we'll take what we need (and the rest will be fine)

by theangryorchard



Category: Big Time Adolescence (2020)
Genre: (Assumed) Unrequited Love, Choking (But Not Actually), Consensual Underage Sex, Everyone Has A Big Dick In Fan Fiction, Friends With Benefits, M/M, Revenge Sex, slight angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-07
Updated: 2020-04-07
Packaged: 2021-03-01 17:00:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23520472
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theangryorchard/pseuds/theangryorchard
Summary: “Is that what you do when you’re upset?” Mo asks. “Tattoo yourself?”Nick shrugs. “Getting fucked up helps too,” he says. “Or sex.”“Sex is kinda the root of the problem,” Mo says without thinking. He expects Nick to raise an eyebrow, maybe get a little nosy and ask what he means.He doesn’t expect Nick to smirk and say, “Sex with someone else, then.”-Mo fucks Nick out of spite. (Mo is seventeen.)
Relationships: Monroe "Mo" Harris/Nick, Monroe "Mo" Harris/Zeke Presanti
Comments: 20
Kudos: 43





	we'll take what we need (and the rest will be fine)

**Author's Note:**

> surprising exactly no one, my first fic for this fandom is for a rare pair. also, you're probably wondering how i characterized nick... i just vibed, man.
> 
> big shout out to the members of the little bta discord server for their enthusiastic support, and to my freaky magic twin for beta'ing!

“Mo,” Zeke groans, fucking into Mo just this side of too hard as he starts to come. The feeling has Mo whimpering; the last little aftershocks of his own orgasm are still dancing across his nerves, and Zeke’s thrusts are starting to set them on fire. He wants to shove Zeke off of him. He wants to pull him closer.

Thankfully, he doesn’t have to decide which is the better idea. Zeke’s thrusts finally come to a stop and he collapses onto Mo with a small _oof_. They’re both panting and sweaty, and the sheet pulled over them is starting to make everything too hot. Zeke leans back enough to look down at Mo and, for a split second, Mo thinks Zeke might kiss him. But he doesn’t— he never does, after. He just pulls out of Mo and rolls onto his back with a sigh.

They lay there like that for a while, staring up at the ceiling. The fan clicks annoyingly loud. It’s the only sound in the room aside from their heavy breathing. Mo can feel come and sweat and lube dripping down his thighs and he shifts uncomfortably.

“Shit, you want a towel?” Zeke asks suddenly, like an afterthought.

“Yeah,” Mo says. “Thanks.” He tries and fails not to sound disappointed, but he doesn’t really know what he’s disappointed in— Zeke, the situation, himself, all of the above. But, he guesses, that doesn’t really matter.

If Zeke notices Mo’s tone, he doesn’t let on as he climbs out of bed and grabs his boxers off the floor. He stumbles as he pulls them on, probably still drunk or high or some combination of both. Mo watches him leave the room and go into the bathroom down the hall, come drying on his stomach and on the sheets below him.

It makes him feel dirty when Zeke acts like this, which isn’t always. Sometimes he’s sweet and actually bothers to check in on Mo once they’ve caught their breath, still treats him like a friend instead of just someone he’s fucking. But other times— most of the time— Zeke is distant when they’re done. Not quite cold, but somewhere close to it. He’ll offer Mo the dirty shower or a beer, but that’s about it. It feels wrong. It feels like a one night stand every single time, and Mo hates it.

Zeke comes back into the room with a wet washcloth in hand and tosses it to Mo. It’s freezing; apparently he couldn’t even be bothered to wait for the water to warm up. Mo can feel Zeke watching him as he drags the cloth over his stomach and down between his legs. It doesn’t do much, nothing near an actual shower, but it’s better than nothing.

“Want a drink?” Zeke asks, with a level of nonchalance that makes Mo’s blood boil. Like Mo is a stranger in Zeke’s bed. “I got some of that shitty beer you like.”

Mo rests his hands on his chest, still looking up at the ceiling. “I’m good,” he says, even though he doesn’t mean it. “I should probably get home, anyway. I have... homework.”

It’s not even close to convincing, and they both know it, but Zeke doesn’t argue. “Okay, yeah.” When Mo looks over, he’s leaning against the doorframe, looking at Mo with some unreadable expression. “You need a ride?”

“Nah.” Mo finally finds it in himself to sit up, his sore body protesting all the while. “I drove.” Which Zeke _should_ remember, since he offered to pick Mo up earlier. Even if Mo hadn’t taken his own car, the idea of sitting next to Zeke in a confined space for the ten minute drive to his place kind of makes Mo want to throw up.

“Right,” Zeke says, eyes just slightly unfocused like his mind is somewhere else. Mo wants to deck him.

It wasn’t like this in the beginning. _Zeke_ wasn’t like this. Mo was sixteen and a virgin and Zeke was excited to show him everything he knew. And Mo was more than willing to let Zeke do whatever he wanted. Zeke couldn’t keep his hands off Mo, and Mo couldn’t stay away. Now, a year later, it’s getting to the point of impersonal in a way that makes Mo wish they’d never started doing this in the first place. He misses the days when the two of them “fucking around” meant going out to bars or hanging in the parking lot with the others. Mo can’t even remember the last time they hung out without having sex.

And maybe it all wouldn’t be as much of an issue if Mo had stuck to his promise to not catch feelings for Zeke Presanti.

Mo thinks he was probably already head over heels long before they started hooking up. But Zeke calling him _baby_ while he takes him apart and puts him back together again with his bare hands was probably never going to help matters. Maybe Zeke noticed it, somehow. He’s always been able to read Mo better than anyone else, better than _himself_ at times. If anyone would notice Mo tripping and falling into something more than hero worship, it’s Zeke. Maybe that’s why he’s been slowly pulling away for the last couple months.

It takes Mo a few minutes to gather up his clothes; what had started on the couch slowly moved to Zeke’s bed and there’s a trail of Mo’s shirt and jeans and socks and boxers in between. By the time he’s fully dressed, Zeke is sitting at the kitchen table with a joint between his teeth and a half-empty bottle of vodka on the table in front of him. He curses under his breath as his lighter sparks but doesn’t catch.

“I’m heading out,” Mo says, just to see if Zeke will ask him to stay. And, when Zeke looks up, there’s a moment where Mo thinks he might.

“Cool,” Zeke replies, breezy enough to make Mo’s hands tighten into fists at his sides.

“Cool,” Mo repeats. Angry, dejected tears prick at the back of his eyes and he blinks them away. He’s dealing with enough as it is, he doesn’t need to cry in front of Zeke, too.

Mo gives Zeke another beat to say something— _anything_ else, but he doesn’t. Mo holds his breath to keep from screaming as he turns and heads for the front door. He’s reaching for the doorknob when Zeke speaks again.

“Hey, Momo?”

Mo has to school himself into turning back around at a normal speed, to keep his tone as casual as possible. “What’s up?”

For a moment, Zeke just looks at him. His face is open and soft and he opens his mouth only to shut it again a second later. He does it a few more times, effectively looking like a fish out of water, before he finally says, “You still going on Friday?”

Mo blinks. There’s some party on Friday that Zeke invited Mo to tag along to, but that’s not even close to what Mo thought— _hoped_ — he was going to say. He swallows his disappointment and manages a halfway-casual shrug. He really doesn’t want to go to another party at another stranger’s house on another Friday night.

“Yeah,” he says, because Mo has never been good at saying no to Zeke. “I’ll be there.”

“Sick.” Zeke nods and Mo might be fooling himself, but it looks like he wants to say so much more. “I’ll see you there.”

“Yeah,” Mo says again. He doesn’t know what else to say at this point.

A year ago, leaving Zeke’s this early would have felt weird. The sun is still shining and Mo is still sober. Sixteen-year-old Mo would have been trying to find some excuse to stay. As it is, it almost feels like a relief to open the door and walk outside. The thought has Mo’s heart tightening in his chest.

Mo kicks the door shut behind him as he digs in his pocket for his keys. It slams into the frame, rings out like a gunshot in the quiet afternoon, and hurts like one too.

* * *

Mo has no idea where Zeke is.

He’s been at the party for nearly an hour now. The house they’re in is huge and full-to-bursting with people. Mo recognizes maybe a handful from parties he’s been to before, but the rest are just a sea of unfamiliar faces. Zeke texted Mo when he got here, which was a while before Mo even left his house. He’d told Mo to find him when he showed up, but he’s not returning Mo’s texts, and the picture on his Snapchat story of a random group of drunk people isn’t much help in a house this big.

Mo wanders into the kitchen with a red solo cup in his hand, some fruity thing that a pretty blonde mixed up for him at a plastic folding table in the living room. He’s not sure exactly what he’s hoping to find in there— maybe some goddamn personal space, since it seems like the least packed area of the house— but it doesn’t really matter. He’s three steps into the kitchen when he freezes and nearly drops his cup on the tile, because now he knows where Zeke is.

He’s right there in front of Mo with his tongue in some girl’s mouth.

There are a few other people in the kitchen, but none of them are paying Zeke and the girl any mind. He presses her into the counter and she giggles against his lips, one arm around his neck. Zeke’s hands are on her hips, thumbs under her shirt, and Mo’s own skin burns in the same place as he thinks of all the times Zeke’s touched him like that.

Mo figures he’s got about a minute before he bursts into tears. Plenty of time to dump his drink on Zeke if he wanted, but he doesn’t really feel like causing a scene. Especially not when there’s really nothing to cause a scene over. It’s not like he and Zeke are dating, it’s not like Zeke is _his_. Zeke never even said he’d stopped seeing other people. Mo’s just a dumb teenager with a crush who can’t understand the concept of no-strings-attached.

Zeke, of course, hasn’t even realized Mo is standing there, which makes it easy enough for Mo to slip away. He’s holding his cup so tight he’s starting to crush it, so he sets it down on a nearby table. He sets his sights on the front door, but the path to it is blocked by at least two dozen people, and Mo just doesn’t have the energy. He just needs to be alone for a second so he can collect himself, maybe cry his eyes out for a few minutes, just to get it over with.

He finds himself wandering upstairs in a daze. He feels like he’s underwater, like all his limbs are filled with lead and he’s slowly sinking to the bottom of the ocean. His stomach threatens to empty itself with every pound of the bass from downstairs, and he goes door to door searching for a bathroom, disturbing what looks like a half-decent blowjob along the way.

When Mo finally finds the bathroom, he collapses onto his knees by the toilet and yanks the lid up so hard it slams against the tank loud enough to hurt his ears. He leans over the bowl and braces himself, but nothing happens. Apparently his stomach is stronger than he thought, strong enough to withstand the strain of seeing Zeke kissing someone that isn’t him.

When he’s sure he isn’t going to puke, he falls back to sit against the bathtub and cries. He cries so hard for so long that his throat hurts the next time he opens his eyes. His eyes are burning and his mouth is dry and all he wants to do is go home. He feels so stupid, so _childish._ He doesn’t belong here. He’s starting to wonder if he ever did.

The bathroom door opens so suddenly that Mo nearly jumps out of his skin.

“Shit, my bad. I— Mo?”

Mo looks up at the sound of Nick’s voice. He goes to wipe his eyes, but it’s not really necessary. There’s no way he can pretend like he wasn’t just crying. Nick looks worried, eyebrows drawn together and a frown on his face. He’s been smoking, Mo can smell it on him even from where he’s sitting.

“Are you okay? Who the fuck did this?” Nick shuts the door behind himself and lowers his voice like he’s telling Mo a secret. “I’ll fuckin’ kill them.” It startles a laugh from Mo, one that’s wet and a little too loud, and Nick smiles back as he kneels down next to Mo.

“It’s complicated,” Mo says, even though it’s not. In reality, the answer is pretty fucking simple, and probably wouldn’t come as a surprise to Nick— Mo’s pretty sure his and Zeke’s fucking around is anything but a secret— but Mo doesn’t really feel up to the task of talking about it.

As it turns out, he doesn’t have to. Nick takes one look at him, at his red eyes and tear-stained cheeks and says, “Zeke.”

“Yeah,” Mo answers quietly. He feels so small with Nick close like this; he towers over Mo, even kneeling on the floor.

“Shit, Momo.” Nick sighs. “I wish I knew what to say here, but. Look, Zeke’s a fucking dick, alright?” It feels like it’s supposed to be a joke, but neither of them laughs. “He’s my best friend, but the guy has no fuckin’ concept of his actions affecting other people.”

It’s weird to hear Nick say it. He’s been friends with them for a couple years now, and he’s always seemed pretty loyal to Zeke. But he sounds so damn sincere, like Zeke’s hurt him too. Maybe he has. Mo’s always been so wrapped up in Zeke for all these years that it wouldn’t surprise him if some kind of rift between him and Nick had gone completely over his head.

“For what it’s worth,” Nick says. “You don’t deserve all the shit he puts you through.”

Mo doesn’t know if Nick is talking about the current situation, or Zeke getting him expelled last year, or any number of things that Zeke has done over the years, but it’s comforting all the same. Even despite the neverending urge to defend everything Zeke has ever done to him.

“Thanks, man,” Mo says, because he doesn’t know what else to say.

“‘Course.”

In all the time they’ve known each other, this is the first time they’ve really been alone together, and it only takes about a minute for Mo to find that Nick’s presence is comforting. He’s always had everyone’s best interest at heart, to the point of Zeke consistently calling him the mom friend. Mo thinks it’s hard to consider someone who gives shitty tattoos in Zeke’s living room a mom friend, but he’s definitely the closest to it out of all of them. Mo still laughs every time he thinks of Nick warning him about Sophie’s age, but it also warms his heart to think that he’d been looking out for him like that, trying to keep Mo from doing something stupid.

“C’mon,” Nick says suddenly, standing up and offering Mo his hand. “Let’s get you cleaned up. You look like a fuckin’ loser.”

Mo laughs as Nick pulls him to his feet. “Fuck you, man.” He runs the water and splashes it on his face, reaching blindly for the hand towel until Nick presses it into his hand.

“Better?” Nick asks once Mo’s face is dry.

Mo shrugs. He doesn’t really feel any less shitty, but it’s not quite as obvious that he’s been crying, so he counts that as a victory. “Eh.” He sniffs and turns around to face Nick, leaning back against the counter. “Not really.”

“That’s fair,” Nick says. Then his whole face lights up like he’s had the best idea in the world. “You want me to give you a tattoo? I’ve got all the shit in my car.”

A smile tugs at Mo’s mouth in spite of everything. “Of course you do,” he says, shaking his head. “But, no. I don’t think a tattoo is gonna solve my problems.” He thinks of the words _tongue daddy_ inked into his chest, how that had been a problem all its own. Then he thinks of Zeke giving it to him and feels bitterness rise like bile in the back of his throat.

“You never know,” Nick says. He pointedly glances at his arms, tugs the collar of his shirt away from his chest and looks down. “Sure as shit works for me.”

“Is that what you do when you’re upset?” Mo asks. “Tattoo yourself?”

Nick shrugs. “Getting fucked up helps too,” he says. “Or sex.”

“Sex is kinda the root of the problem,” Mo says without thinking. He expects Nick to raise an eyebrow, maybe get a little nosy and ask what he means.

He doesn’t expect Nick to smirk and say, “Sex with someone else, then.”

A memory comes to Mo so suddenly it almost knocks him over. A jealous flair in Zeke’s eyes after he’d pulled Mo away from Nick at a party. Zeke’s hand over his mouth as he fucked him up against the wall. The look in Zeke’s eyes when he said, “You know he wants to fuck you, right?”

“Nick,” Mo says softly. “You... like me, right?” He hates how small he sounds. He hates how desperate for approval and praise Zeke has made him.

Nick almost seems surprised by the question, but the smirk from before hasn’t left his face. “‘Course I like you, Momo.” He’s close enough now that Mo can feel the heat coming off of his body. “You’re my favorite.”

Mo leans up at the same moment Nick leans down, and they collide in a kiss that’s messy and heated and perfect. One of Nick’s hands comes up to hold Mo’s face and the other rests on the counter behind him as he presses closer. He tilts Mo’s head to the side and licks into his mouth. Mo whines and fists his hands in Nick’s shirt, feels Nick’s responding chuckle resonate in all of his bones.

“God,” Nick says. “You’re so fucking gorgeous. Wanted to kiss you forever.”

Mo nips playfully at Nick’s bottom lip, something that always drives Zeke crazy. “Why didn’t you?” Nick snorts. “What?”

“C’mon, Mo. You know Zeke woulda killed me.”

The thought pisses Mo off so much that he surges forward and kisses Nick harder, hungrier. He trails his fingers up Nick’s arm, over ink he doesn’t know by heart, and up the slope of his jaw to his hair. He gets a handful and tugs just a little, relishing Nick’s groan and the press of his cock, hard and insistent at Mo’s hip.

“Zeke doesn’t own me,” Mo says after a minute. He looks up at Nick, jaw set, determined. “I can do whatever I want.”

“Oh yeah?” Nick grins down at him, sharp in a way that makes Mo’s knees weak. He tilts Mo’s chin up with his thumb before settling it against his throat. “And what do you want?”

Mo’s heart is pounding against his ribs. “For you to fuck me,” he says. “Right here. Right now.” His voice only shakes a little, and he mentally pats himself on the back as Nick groans and falls forward to kiss him. His hands come to rest on Mo’s hips. They’re so big that Mo thinks Nick could probably wrap them all the way around Mo’s stomach if he tried. The thought makes him dizzy and his dick twitches in his jeans.

“Yeah,” Nick breathes. “Fuck yeah, I can do that.” He kisses Mo again, quicker this time, before he says, “Shit, you think there’s lube in here?”

“Dunno.” Mo shrugs. There’s really no blood going to his brain right now so, honestly, he’d kind of forgotten about needing it. “I hope so.”

“Me fucking too,” Nick says with a laugh as he yanks open the top drawer of the vanity and digs around. The first is a bust and he opens the second. “Bingo.” Nick brandishes a half-empty bottle, looking far too pleased with himself. Mo wants him so bad.

“Thank fuck,” Mo says, tugging Nick into another kiss.

It’s wet and filthy and gets sloppier by the second as Nick reaches for Mo’s belt and tugs it off of him. He gets Mo’s jeans open next and shoves them down his thighs along with his boxers. A moan rips its way out of Mo’s throat as Nick wraps his fingers around his cock and starts to stroke.

“Fuck,” Mo gasps. “Wait, I— wanna come with you inside me.” It’s supposed to be a warning, but Nick doesn’t let up. He tightens his grip and strokes faster, and Mo’s head lolls back in a moan.

Nick snorts as he trails kisses over Mo’s jaw. “You’re young,” he says. “You can go again.”  
  
“Fuck. Shit.” Mo fucks into Nick’s hand and tries not to rip Nick’s shirt where he’s holding on for dear life.

“C’mon, Mo, wanna see you come,” Nick mutters, right next to Mo’s ear. He bites down hard on the hinge of Mo’s jaw and that’s all it takes.

Mo shoves his knuckles into his mouth as he comes, muffling his cries as Nick strokes him through it. He only stops when Mo whimpers and pushes weakly at his hand. Nick huffs out a laugh and kisses Mo’s cheek. It’s sweet and unexpected and kind of makes Mo want to cry again. Only a little, though, not enough to distract him from the task at hand.

Nick reaches for the lube, but pauses. He looks over to Mo. “Still want me to—?”

“God, yes.” The words come flying out of Mo’s mouth before he can even think, and Nick smiles. “How, umm, how do you want me?”

Nick pulls Mo forward by his hips and turns him around to face the vanity. He presses his hand against Mo’s back until he bends, leaning down to rest his forearms on the counter. “This okay?” Nick asks, meeting Mo’s eyes in the mirror.

“It’s fine,” Mo says, thinking about their reflections, about the possibilities that come with getting fucked in front of a mirror. “It’s good.”

“Perfect.” Nick grabs the lube off the counter and pops open the cap, smearing some across three fingers. He uses his clean hand to yank Mo’s jeans down more, putting his ass on display. Mo feels vulnerable like this, and he likes it. He likes seeing the heated look in Nick’s eyes when he looks into the mirror, the way he looks like he wants to devour Mo.

Nick opens him up slowly, carefully. Torturous to the point that Mo almost reminds them that they’re at a party, and someone could walk in any second. Somehow he thinks that would just make Nick go slower. He curls three fingers against Mo’s prostate and Mo whines for it, rocks back against his hand and curses under his breath. He can’t help but compare Nick’s fingers to Zeke’s, in the back of his mind. Nick’s are longer, he thinks, and he doesn’t have to try very hard to make Mo see stars. Mo knows if he got a hand on his dick he’d be coming inside of ten seconds, but he wants Nick inside him, and he wants it now.

“Nick,” Mo croaks, voice already pretty wrecked. He stopped trying to muffle his sounds a while ago, and he’s surprised nobody has pounded on the door to tell them to shut up. “Nick, please…”

“Yeah,” Nick says. “I got you, Momo, I’m going.”

He pulls his fingers out and tugs his joggers down, making a face when he gets lube on the waistband. Mo’s laugh is cut short when he sees Nick’s cock, flushed an angry red from being ignored for so long, and… definitely way above average. Not that Zeke is small by any stretch of the imagination. But, from what Mo can see, where Zeke is thicker, Nick is longer.

He really needs to stop thinking about Zeke.

“Like what you see?” Nick asks when he catches Mo staring. He’s got his cock in hand, slick with lube and positioned to push into Mo.

“Fuck off,” Mo replies immediately, cheeks burning. “Just— fuck me already. Please?”

“Alright, alright.” Nick rests his hand on Mo’s back to steady himself as he presses the head of his cock to Mo’s hole. “But only ‘cause you said please so nicely.”

Mo blushes even darker, mouth open to argue, but then Nick’s pushing inside and the words die on his tongue.

Just like when he fingered him open, Nick takes his sweet time with this too, but Mo is grateful for it this time. Each inch feels like a mile, and there are plenty of inches. It feels like hours have passed by the time he’s fully seated, hips flush with Mo’s. “Jesus, you’re tight, Momo.”

“You’re just— big,” Mo manages. He can barely breathe, he’s so full. “S’like I can feel you in my throat, fuck.”

Nick’s hips jerk forward at that, jostling Mo a bit, and he groans. “Mo,” he warns. “Baby.”

“Need it, Nick, please…” And maybe Mo’s playing it up just a little, feigning that baby-faced innocence that always makes Zeke fuck him twice as hard. But, honestly, who could blame him? “ _Please_.”

Instead of a proper response, Nick pulls out nearly all the way before thrusting back in hard enough to rock Mo on his feet. Mo gets a good grip on the counter as Nick starts up an almost punishing pace, fucking into Mo in a way that makes Mo think he really has been wanting this for a long time. It feels good, it makes Mo’s head spin, it _hurts_ — in the best way possible. He’s going to feel this for days and it thrills him. Nick’s hands grip his hips hard enough to bruise. Mo _hopes_ they do.

Mo goes to rest his forehead against one of his arms, but Nick’s hand appears in his hair, tight enough that Mo can’t move. “Uh-uh,” Nick says. He tilts Mo’s head back just enough that Mo has nowhere to look but the mirror. “I want you to watch.”

Mo mewls like a fucking kitten, and the sound should embarrass him, but all he can think about is Nick’s hands and his voice and his cock splitting Mo open. All he can do is watch his own face as he takes it. Mouth dropped open in a silent moan, eyes nearly watering from the hand in his hair. And Nick doesn’t relent. He doesn’t slow down or ask if Mo needs a minute, just snaps his hips into Mo’s, hitting his prostate with unerring accuracy. It has Mo hurtling towards his orgasm at a dizzying speed.

“Close,” he says, gripping the counter so hard his knuckles hurt. “Fuck, Nick, m’close.”

“Yeah?” Nick’s hand finally releases Mo’s hair, only to wrap around his throat instead. He doesn’t apply any pressure, just holds it there. He glances at Mo in the mirror, as if to make sure that it’s okay, and Mo can only whine in response. “Touch yourself, Mo, want you to come with my cock inside you.”

Mo moans and hurries to comply, struggling just a bit to get a hand on his own cock where it aches between his legs. It doesn’t take much, just a few quick strokes before Mo’s coming so hard his vision whites out for a second. When he comes back to himself, Nick has two fingers in his mouth to quiet him. Mo hadn’t even realized he was being so loud. He sucks gently on Nick’s fingers both as a thank you, and to see the look on his face when he does it.

“Fuck,” Nick says. “Gonna come.” His thrusts turn sloppy and shallow, just Nick chasing his own orgasm. Mo desperately wants to contribute, but he feels like the hand on his jaw is the only thing keeping him from completely collapsing. Nick thrusts once, twice more before he comes, pressed as deep into Mo as he can.

In an instant, the mood seems to shift. Nick bends down to kiss Mo’s back, the knobs of his spine, the nape of his neck. “Did so good,” he mutters, still breathing heavily. “You’re fuckin’ amazing, Momo.” It’s sweet and tender and so unlike the way he was just a minute before. It warms Mo to his toes, and part of him never wants to leave this bathroom, this little bubble they’ve made for themselves.

Nick pulls out slowly, leaving Mo bereft and empty, still essentially melted against the bathroom counter. There’s a rustling as Nick tucks himself back into his joggers and then he reaches out to help Mo up. Once he’s in a standing position, Nick helps him get his boxers and jeans back up and buttoned, then gets Mo’s belt off the floor and hands it over. It takes a few tries, since all of Mo’s limbs feel like jelly, but he gets it through the loops in the end. Nick looks at Mo like he’s waiting for him to speak, but Mo feels like he’s forgotten how.

“You okay?” Nick asks quietly. He cups Mo’s cheek with one hand.

Mo manages a nod, and finds his voice after a beat. “Yeah, I’m just— that was a lot.”

“Yeah,” Nick agrees, looking a little sheepish. “Mo, I am so fuckin’ sorry if I did anything you didn’t like, or—?”

“No!” Mo rushes to cut him off. “I liked it. I liked all of it.” He blushes and there’s a similar pink tinge to Nick’s cheeks that Mo isn’t sure if he should blame on the exertion of thoroughly railing Mo or the conversation they’re having afterward. “It was really fucking good, Nick.”

Nick’s grin is almost blinding. “Good.”

When Nick leans in to kiss him, it catches Mo off guard. He’d almost forgotten that was allowed after all the times Zeke made him feel like it wasn’t. This kiss is slower and deeper than the ones before, like they have all the time in the world. Mo can’t help but melt into it, opening his mouth when Nick’s tongue brushes his bottom lip.

“Y’know,” Nick mumbles when they part. “I really do fuckin’ like you, Mo.”

Mo smiles shyly. “I like you too,” he says, only a little surprised to realize that it’s the truth.

“Maybe,” Nick starts and stops. He clears his throat. “Maybe, if the shit with Zeke doesn’t work out, we could— do this again, or something.”

Mo nods, though his heart aches at the thought of things not working out with Zeke in the end. “I’d like that,” he says. “But if you could give me, like, a heads up next time, that’d be great. Gotta make sure I don’t have to be able to fucking walk anywhere the next day.”

As if to prove his point, Mo’s legs do their very best to give out as he tries to take a step away from the counter. Nick laughs, but it isn’t mean. Not like how Zeke would laugh at something like that. He reaches out to steady Mo with a hand on his elbow.

“Let’s go get you a fuckin’ drink,” Nick says. “I think you deserve one after what I just did to you.”

“I absolutely do,” Mo agrees.

They make their way back downstairs slowly; Mo’s hips are already starting to hurt, and his back isn’t very happy either. Nick leaves him at the bottom step to go find him a drink in the kitchen; they were gone long enough that the party has died down a little, and the drink table seems to have disappeared. Distantly, Mo wonders if Zeke is still here. Maybe he left. Maybe, Mo thinks with his heart in his stomach, he took that girl home.

Mo decides that it’s fine. He can handle it. Zeke doesn’t belong to him, and he doesn’t own Mo. Mo just had a great time with Nick. They can fuck other people all they want. It’s fine. It really is.

Of course, all that falls apart when Zeke comes out of the back hall with that same girl right on his heels. Mo knows the look on his face well; he knows where they’re going and what they’re going to do. The thought has him clenching his teeth and wishing he had a drink or a joint or _something_ to make him feel less shitty.

When Zeke looks up and meets his eyes, he almost looks panicked, like a little kid caught with their hand in the cookie jar. Mo doesn’t even have it in himself to be angry or upset anymore. He’s just tired. And he really, really wants that drink.

As if cued, Nick appears next to him with two cups in his hands. “I have no idea what the fuck it is,” he says. “But there’s alcohol in it.”

“Thank fuck,” Mo says, taking a cup. He goes to take a sip, but stops before the lip of the cup touches his mouth.

Mo doesn’t look to see if Zeke is still watching as he leans up to kiss Nick. He doesn’t have to; he can feel Zeke’s eyes burning a hole into the side of his face. Nick must know what he’s doing, there’s no way he doesn’t, but he doesn’t protest. He even chases Mo’s lips a little when he pulls away. Mo drops back down onto his heels with a satisfied smile, and Nick rolls his eyes. When Mo chances another look over, Zeke and the girl are gone, and he can’t tell if he’s satisfied with that outcome.

Nick slings an arm around his shoulders. “You gonna dip?” He asks.

“Nah.” Mo really doesn’t want to be alone in his room right now, and he can’t exactly go to Zeke’s. “I’ll stay for a bit.”

“Fuck yeah,” Nick says, tapping Mo’s cup with his own. “Let’s fuckin’ party.”

Mo tips his head back in a laugh and tries to ignore the sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach.

**Author's Note:**

> listen... i was on some horny bullshit, okay?


End file.
